


A Gentle Touch, A Passionate Coupling

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-04 15:00:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1082404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a preface: doing a fic challenge wherein I write a smut scene with neither the use of profanity nor any direct reference to the act/genitals. </p><p>Grantaire and Enjolras, Enjolras’ first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Gentle Touch, A Passionate Coupling

The stumble into Grantaire’s rooms was a clumsy but rapid affair, and Grantaire had to catch Enjolras by his hips to keep him from falling entirely to the ground as he got the both of them over the threshold, moving to kick the door closed behind them as he led Enjolras into the darkened room and to the bed by memory, not taking his lips from Enjolras’ in all this time.

Their embrace was a passionate one, Grantaire’s lips chapped where Enjolras’ were soft, Grantaire’s jaw covered over with dark hair and scratching against Enjolras’ clean, hairless skin, Grantaire tending to dominate, and Enjolras letting him do so, opening his mouth and arching his back for Grantaire to  _take_.

Grantaire did not want to take. He did not want to consume, he did not want to take, or destroy, or mar or bruise or hurt. Grantaire merely wanted to  _indulge_ , to pleasure, to enjoy, to play Enjolras’ body and draw beautiful melodies of sound from his pretty, pretty lips.

Grantaire wanted to devote himself, wanted to worship the beautiful man that stood before him - and so he would. Grantaire would guide Enjolras to what he wanted, would assist him in traversing the path he so chose, but most of all, he was a willing servant, willing to give Enjolras everything he so desired.

Everything.

 

"Your clothes, Enjolras, take them off." Grantaire murmured quietly as he drew away, and Enjolras set about doing so, neatly folding each garment and setting them on the table even though his hands were quivering with nerves or with anticipation - most likely, a mix of both.

Grantaire moved away from Enjolras to set about lighting two candles and then retrieving a bottle of oil from a cabinet. Enjolras regarded this latter with a cautious gaze, and he took in a slow breath. “It’s alright.” Grantaire murmured quietly. “If you’d rather, we needn’t penetrate-“

"No, I want it." Enjolras interrupted him, and the prettiest vermilion flush blossomed on the upper parts of his cheeks; Grantaire was  _dizzied_  with the sight. “I want you inside me, Grantaire.” Grantaire was rapid in pulling off his own clothes, having no care for folding them as Enjolras did, but when it come to moving closer to the other man, he was cautious.

"Do you- I mean, do you mind if I kiss you again?" 

"Please. Kiss me." Enjolras requested in the softest of tones, and Grantaire did, pressing his lips to the blond’s and gently combing his fingers through the other’s beautiful hair. He did not deserve this. Grantaire did not deserve to be so close to Enjolras, not when there were better men around, but then, Grantaire was not a good man.

Grantaire was an awful man, a reprehensible one. And so, tonight, he would be selfish.

He was slow in leading Enjolras back towards the bed, his hands feeling so  _large_  against Enjolras’ slenderer digits and smaller palms. And it was not that Enjolras was a small man, for lithe though he was, he was as tall as Grantaire and with broad shoulders - and yet, these  _hands_ were so petites!

Grantaire was slow, careful, in pushing Enjolras back onto the softness his mattress offered, kneeling beside him as he captured his lips in a loving embrace. The preparation was slow, assisted by warmed over oil, and the  _sounds_  Enjolras made could surely send any man to infernal downfall, for to hear a noise like that just the once, they would commit whatever sin required of them.

Enjolras was gasping, grasping at Grantaire’s shoulder with his pretty, slender little hands, and his lips were parted as he let out little noises, his eyes closed so  _tightly_  and screwing up his face, lining it with effort and concentration.

"Enter me." He grit out, rolling his hips, and Grantaire regarded him tenderly.

"Are you certain you are prepared sufficiently?"

"Grantaire,  _please_ , I have made my request, so indulge me.”

Grantaire did. He pressed slowly forwards, and the howl it drew from Enjolras’ very throat was gratifying as the blond went utterly still, taking in greedy gasps of air as he held tightly to Grantaire’s shoulders, his grip bruising and leaving marks on his arms that would no doubt purple in the coming week.

"How is that?" He asked, and it was difficult, for the sensations he was overcome with were  _intense_ , but he managed the words. 

"Full." Enjolras whispered. "I feel- I feel full, your hand, will you touch m-" He let out a cry as Grantaire did, and dissolved into the most arresting of desperate whimpers as Grantaire began to thrust. They were lovers entwined, belonging to some fresco, Grantaire, thought, with Enjolras’ face the focus to spare a painter from capturing his own ugly physiognomy.

Enjolras’ skin was hot to the touch, wet and shining with sweat, and so was Grantaire’s - they were opposites, night and day, fire and black ice, the sun and the moon, Dionysus and Apollo, and yet it was perfection. Grantaire fit Enjolras’ every nook, his hands perfect on the jut of the blond’s hips and his face  _made_ for the crevice his neck offered, and Enjolras’ thighs slid so perfectly where they curled around Grantaire’s, his hands splayed on Grantaire’s shoulder in such a magnificent, gloriously beautiful way their making must have been dictated by Aphrodite herself.

"You are perfection." Enjolras whimpered out, voicing Grantaire’s every secretive thought and applying them to the wrong man.

"It is you, my friend, you are- dear  _God_ -” Grantaire broke from his lyrical poeticisms, barely planned in his mind, and they were scattered and lost to the four winds as he focused on  _sensation_.

 _La petite mort,_  as Grantaire so often called it, had never been so true in meaning as now. He gasped against Enjolras’ neck as the blond did nothing short of  _writhe_.

He was slow in pulling back, and Enjolras was a liquid upon his bed, spread out with languid limbs and a blissful expression of half-lidded eyes, mussed hair and lips that parted in memory of this new sensation he had not experienced before.

Grantaire truly had died, for this euphoria, this perfect  _bliss_  and elation, was surely not something those among the living could hope to experience. “Are you well?” He asked, and his voice came hoarse, but Enjolras heard him, and he nodded.

"Lie with me." He said, and Grantaire did, curling around Enjolras and against his back as silver spoons laid out in their case, his knees in the hollow of Enjolras’, his nose against the other’s slender neck, his hands so  _perfect_ splayed as they were on Enjolras’ waist, with Enjolras’ hands atop them. 

Perfection in the hands of lovers.


End file.
